the centre of a circle of disputants, who were busily
discussing whether the aforesaid Salvator would die a Schismatic, a
Huguenot, a Calvinist, or a Lutheran?--'He will die, Signor Canonico,' I
replied, 'when it pleases God, a better Catholic than any of those who
now speak so slightingly of him!'--and so pursued my way."

This _Canonico_, whose sneer at the undecided faith of Salvator roused
all the bile of the tolerant and charitable Baldovini, was the near
neighbor of Salvator, a frequenter of his hospitable house, and one of
whom the credulous Salvator speaks in one of his letters as being "his
neighbor, and an excellent gentleman."

On the following day, as the Padre sat by the pillow of the suffering
Rosa, he had the simplicity, in the garrulity of his heart, to repeat
all these idle reports and malicious insinuations to the invalid: "But,"
says Baldovini, "as I spoke, Rosa only shrugged his shoulders."

Early on the morning of the fifteenth of March, that month so delightful
in Rome, the anxious and affectionate confessor, who seems to have been
always at his post, ascended the Monte della Trinita, for the purpose of
taking up his usual station by the bed's head of the fast declining
Salvator. The young Agosto flew to meet him at the door, and with a
countenance radiant with joy, informed him of the good news, that "his
dear father had given evident symptoms of recovery, in consequence of
the bursting of an inward ulcer."

Baldovini followed the sanguine boy to Iris father's chamber; but, to
all appearance Salvator was suffering great agony. "How goes it with
thee, Rosa?" asked Baldovini kindly, as he approached him.

"Bad, bad!" was the emphatic reply. While writhing with pain, the
sufferer added after a moment:--"To judge by what I now endure, the hand
of death grasps me sharply."

In the restlessness of pain he then threw himself on the edge of the
bed, and placed his head on the bosom of Lucrezia, who sat supporting
and weeping over him. His afflicted son and friend took their station at
the other side of the couch, and stood in mournful silence watching the
issue of these sudden and frightful spasms. At that moment a celebrated
Roman physician, the Doctor Catanni, entered the apartment. He felt the
pulse of Salvator, and perceived that he was fast sinking. He
communicated his approaching dissolution to those most interested in the
melancholy intelligence, and it struck all present with unutterable
gri